


Then There Were Three

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: Concatenation Timestamps [5]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Chasing Sex, Clothed Sex, Established Relationship, Fluff, Love, M/M, Passionate Sex, Pet Ownership - Freeform, Sappiness, adoration, cats owning you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 14:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6157216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"There isn't an easy way to say this," he murmurs, "but I hope that when I tell you, and you've time to process, you'll forgive me."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>James tilts his head, watching Q with a cautious gaze, caught between alarm and preemptive hurt, mind racing. Any number of mistakes or betrayals lay imagined wounds upon him. Each is like a blow to the belly, dampening his breath and his ability to take more. The rush of alarm hissing white noise in his ears is so intense that he almost misses when Q says:</i>
</p>
<p>...read on to find out ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Then There Were Three

**Author's Note:**

> A catch up chapter we will use as a flashback!!
> 
> Credit where credit is due, to [annamarkt](http://annamarkt.tumblr.com/) for inventing the adorable Turing.

They've never had trouble working through problems before, why should they now?

Every mission had its disagreements, but resolved for the sake of assignment and each other. There have been dark moods that have befallen both - Q after South Africa, James after brutal jobs that left him sleepless and uneasy. They have even resolved the matter of chores with relative ease, namely when Q directed James as he would in an assassination or infiltration, only relative to how the washing machines work.

None of that does any good to ease the tension rising in Q as he paces back and forth across the living room. He lifts his eyes to the clock again, and his watch in turn, and then his phone. James will be home imminently from Headquarters, and meeting with M to discuss the potential for working in an advisory capacity. His skill and experience makes him worthwhile even not afield - Q would be shocked if M doesn't grudgingly, very grudgingly, accept his offer.

Ten minutes, maybe.

Twenty if the traffic's bad.

At most twenty, then, for Q to get his head on straight and try to find a way to make amends for what he's done. Twenty minutes to figure out how to apologize. Twenty minutes to either stiffen his upper lip or lose his grip entirely, and beg forgiveness rather than calmly ask for it.

He should have known better. Even in his devotion, his stubbornness, he's fallible just like anyone else. Given to temptation, the right place at the right time - or the wrong, in this case. Certain words spoken just so to bend him and weaken his resolve. Warm touches and little kisses that even in his wrongdoing could only be described as innocent.

He didn't mean to.

He really didn't mean to.

It just happened.

Q presses his hands to his mouth, breathing out hard against sweaty palms as James' car rumbles into the drive.

After a lifetime of being late, he's home early.

Brilliant.

Bloody brilliant.

Q listens to the engine quiet, to the door open and close, to James shuffling through his pocket for something as keys jingle in his other hand. He listens to the door open and holds his breath.

“Some days I miss her a bloody lot,” James huffs, turning a tired smile to his husband before closing the door. He turns to unshoulder his coat and hang it on the rack. “M’s a clever man but Christ if he doesn’t find a way to get under your skin.” He ducks to scoop Peter up and hold him against his chest as he toes off his shoes. “He wants me, of course, he can’t bloody admit it but he does. I decided to take the higher path and not make him grovel this time.”

James kisses the top of Peter’s head and lets him slink oil-smooth to the floor.

“So it went well then,” Q asks, watching Peter slip past before turning back to Bond. He manages a smile. He folds his hands together in front of himself. He reminds himself to bloody breathe.

He reminds himself that James loves him - he hopes, no matter what.

“Remote observation and advisement for now, on an as-needed basis,” James answers. There’s a twitch in his brow, quickly smoothed, as he steps towards Q and rests his hands against his arms. “Of course, all subject to M’s desires. He made it abundantly clear that I am to jump when he says jump, just as our agreement is to be considered void at his discretion.”

Q squirms a bit beneath his hands and leans closer, touching a kiss to the center of James’ bottom lip. His husband’s eyes narrow, curious, and Q draws a breath. “It’ll be good to see you around headquarters again.”

James hums, squinting harder. “Now I know something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“What have you done, darling?”

“I’m happy for you, that’s all,” Q insists, with a snort. He’s going to be ill. He is absolutely going to be ill. “Can’t I simply be pleased for you?”

“Usually when you’re happy you’re not such a vibrant shade of pale,” James points out, bringing a hand to Q’s cheek to press to it next, stroking his thumb under his eye. He moves it to his forehead and Q snorts.

“I’m not ill.”

“But something’s wrong,” James says, and the easy indifference of before disappears into a soft frown of concern. “Did Desmond get sick?”

"Desmond's fine," Q tells him. He doesn't let himself look away from James' gentle seeking, even as he tilts his cheek into his hand to savor the warmth there. It has to be now, because the truth will come out soon enough anyway.

He'd rather be the one to tell him, rather than James finding out on his own.

Q draws a deep and bolstering breath and Bond's eyes widen incrementally in alarm. "I need to tell you something," Q says, curling his fingers over James' own before he can move them. "I don't think you're going to be happy about it."

James goes very still, still enough that Q wonders if he’s even breathing, back to the honed instincts of his spy days, predatory and cautious all at once.

“Q,” he breathes after a moment. “What happened?”

Is now the moment that Q drops to his knees and presses his face into James' hands and begs forgiveness? Is now the moment he steels his shoulders and stands tall, explaining calmly and clearly and hoping for the best? Q doesn't know, as someone who has spent his life refusing to acknowledge his mistakes so much as correcting them swiftly and efficiently.

There isn't an easy answer to this. There isn't a simple way to forget the warmth he felt or what it lead to, how softly Q laughed and gasped his delight, stroking with slender fingers through dark hair. His mouth is dry, and his throat hurts when he swallows.

He nods once, and squeezes James' fingers a little tighter.

"There isn't an easy way to say this," he murmurs, "but I hope that when I tell you, and you've time to process, you'll forgive me."

James tilts his head, watching Q with a cautious gaze, caught between alarm and preemptive hurt, mind racing. Any number of mistakes or betrayals lay imagined wounds upon him. Each is like a blow to the belly, dampening his breath and his ability to take more. The rush of alarm hissing white noise in his ears is so intense that he almost misses when Q says:

"I've brought home another cat."

There’s silence, that same stillness that James had taken on moments before, and then he curses, loudly, and turns away, hand to his mouth and shoulders curled. Q swallows.

“It won’t be too much of an imposition -”

“Quinn, I thought you were going to leave me,” James tells him, voice raised just enough to be louder than normal. “I thought one of your parents was sick, I thought something had happened, and all you did was get a bloody cat.” James curses again, and then he laughs, bright and loud, pulling from deep in his throat and narrowing his eyes. “You got another bloody cat?”

"Leave you?" Q asks in disbelief. "Bond, why on Earth would I leave you?"

"You say that as if I'm the one who's implied it."

"I certainly did not, and you're the one who imagined it might be true," Q shrugs, eyes wide. James laughs helplessly into his hand, bending at the waist to rest the other palm against his knee. "Are you quite alright, 007? Of all the reactions I anticipated, hysterical laughter wasn't among them. Of course I wouldn't leave you. I wouldn't dream of it."

James squeezes his fingers against his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose and rattling a long sigh as he stands straight again. "Darling, promise me you'll never again start a conversation with 'I need to tell you something'."

"But I did," Q argues, folding his arms, "and I almost certainly will again."

James steps closer and kisses him, full on the mouth, hot and lingering. He clings to Q’s hair, presses chest to chest with his husband, and when they break to breathe, James rests his forehead against Q’s and sighs against him.

“You will be the death of me,” he whispers fondly. “With your cat-gathering and mystery.”

Q smiles and lifts his eyes, turning his head gently one way then the other to nuzzle against Bond properly. The relief is overpowering, the response entirely unexpected.

“God,” James sighs after a moment, stepping back but still holding Q’s face cupped in his hands. “Let’s see it then, this new terror.”

Q shakes his head, not in negation, but in a shiver of pleasure, smile so wide it draws up his eyes. He raises his chin, nose wrinkling when James kisses him again. "Now I know the best means by which to garner your enthusiasm for more," he muses. "Implication of abandonment."

"You are cruel," James whispers, terribly amused. "Dreadful man, you're lucky I love you so much."

"I am extremely fortunate in that," Q agrees, grinning against another kiss and drawing away with James' fingers caught within his own. "Now, once you see him, you'll understand. It couldn't be helped, 007, absolutely unavoidable. Do be careful, though," he adds, as they make their way to the downstairs bathroom, rarely used. "He's very small."

James sighs but follows, squeezing Q’s hand as they go. He wondered when the inevitability of another cat would come to pass. He hoped it would be when both of them were there to decide it but he supposes it is entirely expected that Q would find himself unable to resist.

Beyond the door there comes a very quiet scratching and a weak, tiny mewl. It doesn’t sound like Peter or Desmond, it sounds whiny and angry. James winces and reaches for the door handle. 

Beyond sits… something. Skinny and small, with a pointed tail and enormous bat ears. It’s mostly white, some speckles of orange and black against its body and face, and huge eyes, one yellow, the other almost the same, with some blue in the corner. The creature opens its mouth again and makes that grating noise once more and James groans.

“Q, you brought home an alien.”

Q tilts his head towards his shoulder as he shrugs, surprisingly amenable to the analysis. "You're not wrong," he says.

"I'm not?"

"Male calicos are exceedingly rare, approximately one in three-thousand births." And then he wilts, happily, crouching down to sit on his heels and beckon the creature to him with splayed fingers.

"Come here, little lad," he murmurs, stroking softly when the kitten is within arm's reach enough. Q's pleasure is visible, body gentling as he extends his arms to grasp the kitten and bring it to his chest. He stands again, slowly, rocking onto his heels and nuzzles against the kitten now purring in a high rumble and tugging tiny claws against his jumper.

"Yes, hello,” chirps Q. “I know it's dreadful you were kept in there. But we had to wait for daddy to get home so he could meet you, rather than startle and pull his sidearm.”

James snorts and doesn’t comment. It’s become Q’s favourite story to tell, and his favourite thing to bring up when James makes a comment regarding the cats that doesn’t sit quite right. It’s almost sweet, considering how - now - James interacts with the creatures as though he has always enjoyed their company.

The strange little kitten continues to knead against Q’s arm, eyes closing and opening in slow pleasure, his mewl unpleasant every time he makes a sound. James supposes he will have to get used to it; it is more likely that Q would kick James out of the house than return a cat. With a sigh he reaches to pet against the creature’s head, its fur not silky like Peter’s, not fluffy like Desmond’s. It feels almost like fleece, curling in on itself in delicate waves.

“He looks like Alan Turing,” James mumbles.

Q gives James a very dry, very doubtful look at this declaration. Brow creeping upward, he lifts the tiny kitten - threads snagging and pulling long from his jumper - and regards him face to face. He grins, nose wrinkling, when small paws push against his cheeks and his nose is sniffed.

"He is devilishly clever," Q decides. "He clearly has a sense of humor. The sweep of dark fur across his head, much like Dr. Turing's hair. Yes," he muses, "I quite see it. Alan it is -"

"No," says James. "No, not Alan."

"Why not?"

"I can't clip that name as well as the rest. Peter," he declares firmly as example, popping the P. "Desmond!" There's an answering mewl from the other room, and James spans his hand wide in victory. "Alan drags on too long. A name should snap well for those unavoidable moments in which they misbehave. Turing," he says.

Parting his lips with his tongue, Q finds himself in the rare and remarkable state of speechlessness. Achieved by very few, and decreasingly so by James the longer they're together, he merely watches his husband in bewilderment and wonder both. "Turing, then," he agrees, grin widening as he offers the fleecy beast over. "Turing, please meet James Bond, freelance special agent to Her Majesty's Secret Service."

James pretends reluctance, but takes the little thing in his hands and holds it near. It’s so light it feels almost unreal. Even Peter, slim and slight as he is, has weight, gives the sensation of holding something tangible. This thing - Turing - is damn near weightless. His skinny rat tail curls around James’ hand and he makes that awful noise again. James gathers him close and regards him, as Turing sniffs against his shirt and sets wide paws with claws far too long for something so small against his chest.

He’s very strange but it’s impossible to deny that the little cat is charming. He blinks his mismatched eyes at James and the ex-agent can’t help but smile, his own eyes narrowing. He draws his fingers against the top of the kitten’s head, how he touches Peter to set him off purring endlessly, and finds it to have a similar result.

He can feel the sharp claws prick his skin as the tiny cat mashes him.

“I don’t like him,” he sighs, and Q grins, delighted. “We didn’t need another bloody cat, we have two terrible creatures already.” James steps back and turns to leave the room, carrying Turing with him. “He will make that terrible noise, walk all over us when we sleep, find ways to get into my suits…”

“Yes,” Q laughs, following him. 

“Awful,” James murmurs, resigned. “Bloody terrible. You’ve bound me to them.” He turns on his heel and catches Q against his chest, tactfully holding Turing out of the way. He smiles and kisses Q gently.

Q presses his palm against James' chest and sighs over his lips. Gathering their mouths into a lazy kiss, he pushes himself nearer, glancing towards the kitten from the corners of his hooded eyes. He's secure - happy, even - in James' hand, peeping his demand for attention.

"You love them," Q accuses in a whisper, hand on James' wrist to reel his hand and the kitten back between their bodies.

"I love you," James corrects. "I tolerate them."

"You tolerate them with such waning patience that you've sacrifice your waistcoats to be their bedding," whispers Q, conspiratorial in the extreme. Their eyes meet, the challenge thrilling between them always, regardless of the silliness of the subject matter. Two disparate points on the same masculine spectrum, James settles his shoulders wide as Q slides his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Between them, Turing purrs and peeps. Peter and Desmond make dreadful sounds from the distance.

"Oh yes," Q says, brow raising. "You didn't think I'd see it there beneath the blankets, in the bed they never use. If I didn't know better, Bond, I'd think you were trying to use your scent to seduce them into sleeping there, by way of charcoal grey wool and brown satin backing."

“Seduce?” James purrs, drawing his thumb against the underside of Turing’s little chin. “Never. Encourage, perhaps, for the nights I wish the bed and my husband to myself.”

Q’s eyes narrow and he runs his fingers over the little kitten’s back. He will need time to settle, a few more nights in the bathroom with some toys, his tray and some water, then the others can meet him, slowly integrate him into the home. He will be trouble, this tiny thing, Q can already sense it. But he saw him on the rescue site, while browsing for something else entirely, and he could not let him stay there a moment more.

One in a million little creature.

"You forgive me, then," Q asks after a moment, "for our new friend sharing a bit of our excessive space, and for the fright."

James hums, adjusting the kitten to rest in the crook of his elbow, held close against his chest. The baby purrs brightly, a high-pitched and eager rumble, small paws tucked snug beneath his body.

"I forgive you," James says, and Q inclines his head in thanks with a lifted brow and a sleek smile, "for the former."

This pulls Q's smile to a grin that he tucks beneath the sides of his fingers. "And the latter?"

"You might owe a little more to settle that debt. You, of all people, should know better than to approach a secret agent -"

"Freelance secret agent," Q says. "Freelance advisor, really."

"You should know better than to approach me," Bond sighs, "with the statement 'there's something I need to tell you.' No good comes of it, Quinn, ever."

"Ever? I daresay the counterpoint is currently sleeping in your arms."

James hums, a long and low sound that is echoed by the cat against him, and he lifts an eyebrow. He ducks his head to whisper against Q’s ear, always wary, to the point of delightful amusement, of having the cats overhear.

“I’ve half a mind to bend you over my knee for it,” he murmurs.

Q draws a deep breath, sharp and sudden. He lifts his hands to fold them gently over Turing’s ears, and tilts his cheek against James’ scruff, deliberately unshaven for his meeting with M. It catches harsh against his own smooth skin and he shivers, leaning a little closer to James’ ear.

“You say that as if you could catch me and hold me long enough to do so,” he whispers. “Do you reckon that you’re as fast as you used to be, 007?”

“For that I might use more than just my hand,” James tells him, narrowing his eyes in delight before looking down at the kitten in his arms. “But this young man has nothing to do with your indiscretion, it would be a pity to have him be part of it. I suppose I’ll have to return him to his room for the time being.”

The invitation is clear enough. Q can see to locking up the house, to housing the other furry creatures that share their home in a place they will be comfortable, and to get a headstart up the stairs.

It would hardly matter, James will catch him regardless of where he is or how far ahead, always.

The knowledge does little to make it less than exhilarating.

Q steps back as James turns calmly towards the bathroom, and Q swears as he goes to check the front door that he can hear his husband muttering to their new housemate. Quick clicks bring Peter and Desmond to Q's ankles, and he gives them a bit of food to occupy their attention. They each receive a pat and praise from their quartermaster, who hears the bathroom door click closed as he stands straight again.

Steps muted by socks, he creeps to the edge of the kitchen door. The sight of Bond's form in the hallway - shadowed by the late Saturday sun through the window - jerks Q's stomach tighter and snares hard in the pit of his belly. Broad shoulders, blonde hair that all but glows with the golden light behind, and a steady stride.

Unrelenting.

Dangerous.

And absolutely bloody delicious.

Q crouches, and runs. He nearly launches himself face-first into the floor, socks skidding over tile but giving traction against the wood in the living room. Grabbing the bannister, he swings himself around and takes two steps at a time, sputtering laughter as James' heels thud behind him. Q trips up the stairs, cursing sharply as his knee bangs the wooden edge. It's hardly felt through the surge of adrenaline, copper-hot on his tongue, but the hand around his ankle is another matter entirely.

He manages to squirm free, but it hardly matters when he gets to the bedroom door and immediately James follows, closing it with a click behind them both. It takes little more than for him to stand at his full height, arms crossed and back to the door for Q to make a sound, laughing and shaking his head as he backs up towards the bathroom. James’ eyes narrow and he crooks his finger, beckoning Q closer.

“It’s terrible how undisciplined you are,” James murmurs, taking a step closer, one of his for every two of Q’s, who merely laughs in response. “Since I left the entire place has gone to hell.”

“Clearly.”

“Clearly,” James agrees, suddenly taking the steps needed to catch Q around the waist with one arm, the other slipping his hand into his hair and tugging, just enough to tilt Q’s head. “I’ll have to remind you, then.”

“I’ll remind you, 007, that you are in employ as an outside advisor,” Q whispers. He doesn’t need to raise his voice more than that for the tone to be clear, and for James’ fingers to tighten as his lips part. “You would do well not to underestimate me.”

Rather than pushing away, Q drops his weight, laughing. It helps to be shorter than James - if only by a little - and with a slinkier figure than the agent. James’ fingers slide free as Q snakes beneath his arm, but Bond’s reflexes are damn near failsafe, and before Q can reach the door James has him from behind. An arm around his middle, the other hand against his jaw, James tilts Q’s head aside and breathes against his quickening pulse.

“Sometimes I forget that we share the same basic training,” James murmurs against his ear. “You’d have been a damn good agent, darling, if not for your lack of restraint. Willful creature, must I teach you?”

Q bites his lip to trap his moan behind it. He nods, turning to face Bond, but breaks into a trembling laugh when he’s held fast. “Please,” he begs. “From whom better to learn?”

James hums, turning his nose against Q’s cheek before he kisses sloppily there. “Who else indeed?” He purrs, turning to sit heavily on the bed, stretching out one leg and catching Q against it, his arm still around his middle to save him the painful impact. “Now, stay still, love.”

The first time they had done this, it had been entirely accidental. A whim, in the middle of play, a sharp slap against pale skin and Q’s cock standing immediately at attention from the impact. James had found it entirely delightful. Q had complained the entire time, moaning his apparent _dis_ pleasure into the pillow while James alternately fingered and spanked him to orgasm.

Now, James runs a warning hand against Q’s thigh and catches one of his flailing limbs against the back of his knee to hold it down.

Q grasps James ankle with one hand, the other pressing fingertips to the floor. James’ knees don’t dig into his ribs at all, even with his full weight across, chest and belly balanced on Bond’s strong thighs. He bends his toes against the hardwood and stretches his skinny legs to ease their shaking.

The fact that they’re still fully dressed - Quinn in a comfortable jumper and khaki trousers, James in a suit from his meeting - makes it even naughtier.

“James,” Q begins, but he chokes on whatever he’s planning to declare when the clap of his husband’s hand against his bottom smacks loud and his body erupts into a shiver. “Oh, God,” he groans, blushing embarrassment at his own delight in this.

How very public school he is, afterall.

“Terrible thing,” James sighs, as though put upon by the entire situation. “So clever. Professional. Well-presented, most days, when I can get you into a suit.” Another smack, fingers curling after to squeeze Q’s ass just a little. “And yet still requiring work, still needing to learn lessons on tact and social interaction. Yes?”

“No,” Q laughs, biting his lip when he’s struck again, squirming when James slips a hand down against his belly and lower still to his belt.

“Yes,” James repeats, bending to kiss the back of his head as he works Q’s belt open.

Q wriggles, but James hand against the dip of his spine holds him still. He squirms but with no real intent to free himself. He could, if he wanted, roll off onto the floor and make a clambering break for the door.

The buckle clicks open and leather hisses against khaki as James pulls his belt loose. Q’s skin speckles with goosebumps and he moans, fingernails digging into Bond’s ankle. “You’re not going to -”

“Oh, but I am. Trousers down, darling. And your pants.”

“Bond,” Q says, struggling to manifest the voice upside down and snorting laughter. “007, no!”

“Yes, my dear quartermaster,” James counters, grinning as he slips a hand beneath the waistband of Q’s trousers and starts to draw them down. “Yes.”

Q laughs, pressing a hand against his face and finding himself arching up despite his protests, for his trousers to be pushed to the ground around his ankles. James hums, stroking a large flat palm over Q’s ass, over the warm cotton, fingertips just beneath it to tease before he removes them again.

Any shift is met with a slap, any complaint with another, harder one. James can feel how bloody hard Q is against him already, and smiles at the thought. He spanks just beneath the curve of his bottom, against the thin sensitive skin.

“These,” he says, snapping the band of his pants gently. “Off, please.”

“Bollocks,” Q whispers, voice cracking high in pain and elation both when he’s swatted for this too. He grudgingly pushes back as if to stand, but James’ hand against his back stops him. He tries to slowly shift outward, so he can rise and remove his briefs - bright violet today, trimmed with lime green - but is held from doing this as well. “Bond, I need you to let me - oh, sod it.”

He manages, through carefully shifting his balance between chest and sides, to reach back and glide low the elastic waistband. It scrapes over freshly scarlet skin, revealed inch by inch to his husband, his agent, his most delightful torment in every possible way. Warm fingers curl too hot against his sensitive skin, barring the downward push of his pants. Q whimpers a little, a sound he’s not at all proud to make, and only after tracing the curve of his bottom is he allowed to finally work them down past stiff cock and aching arse, to drop to his ankles.

He grips James’ leg again and resettles himself, his own feet tangled in dull khaki and lurid purple. Q strains against them just to feel himself held bound, half-bared. His glasses creep down his nose and he removes them, folding them before sliding them across the floor to safety.

“You’re not teaching me,” Q accuses him. “Your motives are extraordinarily transparent, Bond.” So is Q’s cock, for that matter, jutting up and poking against his husband’s still very clothed leg. “You like this,” he whispers, grinning. “A man almost half your age bent across your knees like a naughty schoolboy. For shame, 007.”

“And such a clever boy,” James praises him, “who for all his complaining still arches against me so I can more easily do this.” Several spanks in a row, no time between, and then the stroking of his rough hand again as Q groans and shivers against him. “For shame.”

Q makes a helpless sound and James turns his fingers to rub between his cheeks instead, other hand content to curl and tug gently at his husband’s hair. He is so lovely, lithe and young and stubborn as he is. Dominant as he is, and still letting himself be bent this way for both their pleasure.

Carefully, James guides Q to kneel before slipping his arms beneath Q’s and hoisting him up into his lap, grinning when Q winces at the rub of fabric against his red skin.

“I prefer you this way, I think,” James decides, spreading his thighs a little for Q to sit more comfortably, and for his own legs to open for him. James’ hand finds its way to his hole again, teasing there once more as he watches Q with hooded eyes. “Naughty thing.”

Q reaches for the hem of his jumper but his hand is caught and brought back across James’ shoulder. Folding his hands against the back of his agent’s neck, Q leans near and bends his back, thighs spread and brows pressed together. His cock stands upright between them, the tip glistening where his foreskin has pulled back from hardness. Between them is the scent of sex and sweat, arousal and attraction, dizzying and musky and rich.

“Leave it,” James whispers against his husband’s parted lips.

“Half-dressed.”

“Yes.”

“Like when we…”

“At headquarters, tucked away in an unmonitored closet.”

“Yes,” Q moans. “You pinned me to the wall.”

“We knocked a shelf down.”

“You made me stain my trousers.”

“You turned me against the door, hand across my mouth, and fingered me until I came,” James murmurs.

Q nearly breaks at this, at the thought that the illicit teasing of the early days in their insatiable attraction might be theirs again to savor. They are both naughty, terribly so. Both incorrigible in the utmost when it comes to the other, unable to keep their hands to themselves, to say a word without it sound like flirtation, to look at the other without feeling the connection of their gaze like hands across their skin. Q grins, resisting the urge to kiss him, and already delighted by the thought of James returning to headquarters.

Even if it is as an outside freelance advisor to special agents.

That doesn’t matter.

He’ll always be Q’s special agent. He’ll always be his 007.

And he’ll always be Q’s… “Dirty old man.”

“Incorrigible boy,” James replies easily, pressing a finger into Q and parting his lips in sympathy when Q’s jaw loosens and he moans at the feeling, clenching around the intrusion. “I love you.”

“Sap.”

James adds a second finger, just to feel Q squirm.

He does, squinting in discomfort, brow knit. To be pushed into dry is the sort of thing he’d never allow from any lover before James. He’d slap their hand away and chasten them and send them packing with sharp words like ‘tearing’ and ‘pain’ and ‘haven’t you ever heard of lubricant you bloody brute’. But James is allowed, in part because he knows damn well what he’s doing, and in part because Q trusts him. Bond would never forgive himself for hurting Q - those incidences where there’s been an accident have lead to nights of apologies and puppy-eyes and flowers and all manner of guilt.

It helps that they’d shagged only that morning, not many hours before, Q sucking James hard and riding him as he was half-asleep. Q breathes out a steady breath, deliberately relaxing his muscles to allow James’ fingers entry, tightening again to tug them a little deeper. He doesn’t close his eyes, he seeks between James’ own, suspended in this moment of careful touch and dire need.

“I love you,” Q whispers, shaking his head a little, as the barest movement of James’ fingers in him darken the edges of his vision and throw sparks into that shade. “I love you so bloody much.”

James kisses him, sweet and gentle, and slips his other hand up around Q’s waist as he lies back against the bed and takes the man with him. He reaches, then, for the lube in the top drawer.

“Do you?” He asks, playful and soft. “You’re like a puppy in showing it. Making me tea. Drawing me baths. Allowing me to return to my old job. Bringing new cats home for me to glower at.”

Q snorts and James slips his fingers free to pop open the bottle of lube and slick them before returning them again, to the grateful hum from his husband above him. He lets his hands rest against James’ face and touches him as his eyes take him in, hooded and lovely. Their lips finally meet, just a brush, a press, a tangle, an ensnarement spreading wide to allow their tongues to swipe hard against the other.

“I want you back,” Q whispers, when they part with a thin thread of spit between them. He swipes it clean and throws his head back, his entire body curling in a rivet of pleasure as James’ fingers spread his hole wide. “God, I’ve missed you there. I couldn’t stand it -”

He stops. His head tips forward again. James meets his gaze evenly, the scarcest smile gathered in the lines beside his eyes, in the twitch upward of his brows. Q draws a deep breath, holds it until his lungs burn and laughs, helpless and soft, against James’ cheek, draping himself heavy against his husband.

“I went to M,” he confesses, breathless. “I suggested it, that you come back. Not to go into the field, I don’t want you gone again like that and you’re past bloody retirement now anyway. But I asked if you couldn’t - you know - “

“An outside advisor,” James murmurs.

“Yes,” Q whispers. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“You bloody menace,” James whispers, arching up to kiss him, adding a third finger just to feel Q clench around him, hardly because it hurts. He sets one foot to the bed and shifts them until Q is beneath him on the mattress and James rests fully dressed and hard atop. “What would I do without you?”

“Crash and burn.”

“I think I did that quite admirably,” James laughs, “before you showed up to tell me off for it.”

“Too right,” Q whispers, dropping his hands down to work James’ belt and trousers and pants down his thighs. “Can’t have you causing international incidents all over the globe on a whim.”

“I’ll distract you at work,” James promises him quietly, slipping his fingers free and smiling as Q reaches for the lube to work his palm slippery before taking James against it and stroking. “I’ll follow you around like a bloody cat all day.”

“You’d better,” Q scolds him, grinning before the tone can even settle. He draws a breath as Bond arches and moans, thrusting stiff in the tunnel of his fingers. “How else will I be granted the unique privilege to tell you off, and have you almost mind it?”

“There are so many slights in your words, I can hardly begin to know where to take offense,” mutters James, sinking into another heavy kiss as Q parts his legs wider beneath. He pushes up the bed and James remains atop him. He tries to turn just to feel his weight sink heavier. He moans, when James sucks a kiss beneath his ear, and Q runs his free hand through James’ hair to grasp the short strands straight.

“Let me turn,” Q asks, laughing into a full-body shudder as James suckles his earlobe. “Let me -”

“No,” James says. “I want to see you like this.”

“Menace,” echoes Q, riding his legs up higher and positioning James against him with a heavy-hooded gaze and parted lips.

For a moment, neither move, and then James eases in with a groan and shifts to rest his nose alongside Q’s, nuzzling him as he settles to the hilt. It’s a rare pleasure to have Q on his back like this, one they both thoroughly enjoy when they’re in the mood. James keeps the rhythm of their lovemaking slow, deliberately so, and laughs when Q starts to undress him.

The vest first, then the tie, then the shirt, left open over the greying hair on James’ chest. He holds himself up on his arms and ducks his head to watch himself slip into and out of his husband. It never ceases to amaze him that he has this, that they have this together. It’s perfection, every fight and disagreement, every dinner, every hot morning coffee and cool shower kiss. Everything.

“Maybe I’ll be good,” James pants. “Maybe I’ll not stalk you and let you work for a change.”

“Christ, you’re a pain in the -”

“Ah,” James chastens him, pushing in a little harder, and grinning as he bends to kiss him. “Language.”

Q pours the curse against his mouth instead, laughing, drawing their mouths together, sighing, licking deep past James’ teeth. He frames James’ face with his hands, spreading back through silver-gold strands and back to his jaw. He means what he said, as much that Bond is a pain in the ass - in this moment, literally - as that he loves him. Their fights are flirtations, their reconciliations incendiary. Their sex is animalistic and adoring. Their quiet moments serene and exquisite.

He loves James’ bravado and his bravery.

He loves his tenderness and his stubbornness.

Q arches back, heels dug against James’ thighs, pushing his trousers down to lever his own hips from the bed. Steady thrusts, hard and deep, fill him with full shaft and leaking head. Q clutches to his husband - he can do little more - and marvels at the glint of silver around his finger.

He traveled across the world to find him, and he would again.

He spent days at a time sleepless to keep him safe, and he would again.

There is nothing in the world that the quartermaster would not give for his agent, nor is there anything - he knows - that his agent would not give for him.

That doesn’t mean that there isn’t room for the same relentless taunting they’ve always known and loved, however.

“Come on, 007,” grins Q against his ear. “Do keep up.”

“Impatient,” James whispers, panting against Q’s lips. “Terrible boy.”

“I could ask you to put your back into it,” Q reminds him, and James laughs, warm and low, before kissing him. Sliding one hand up under Q’s knee, he holds him open wider. Another thrust, a third, and James groans, slowing his hips only to savor this with his partner, drawing out of their mutual pleasure.

“Keep up with me,” James whispers to him, dragging sloppy kisses against Q’s neck. “Come on.”

Q's palms press to James' cheeks and he squirms, delighted. Nose wrinkled and a snort of laughter caught on his breath, he turns his head aside and shivers as hot lips suckle firm against his throat. His pulse speeds under the stroke of James' tongue, his stomach surges tight with pleasure beneath the thrust of James' thick cock inside him. Pushing his breath into broken bursts, he runs a hand between them to feel where his husband penetrates, wrinkled skin stretched smooth, shaft slick and stiff.

James moans against the hinge of his jaw, grasping with his teeth, licking a line to his ear. Q curls tighter around him, one leg around his hip, the other slid down to wrap over his leg. He wraps his free arm tighter around James' neck and drags him close, every hard fuck shoving moans from him. Cock rutting against James' belly, Q's length drips against his own stomach. The head of James' dick pushes over his prostate, another fat droplet falling hot to Q's skin.

They are graceless now, hardly the skillful and capable creatures that moments before engaged in a vicious play against the other. This is rough with need, too joyous to be visually lithe and lovely. Bodies joined in celebration of their union and reunion, it feels too good to preen and pose. James grins against Q's cheek, as Q whimpers and rubs their faces together.

"James," he pleads, bringing up his hand from between his legs to hover. He doesn't dare touch, he'd not even have time to close his fingers around himself. With a helpless laugh that drops into a heady moan when James slows his pace, Q clutches against James' back, nails leaving crescents in his skin.

It takes a few more thrusts only before they’re both gone, messy and slick between their bellies, between Q’s legs, sweat sticking them to the sheets and lips pressing them to each other, over and over. Breathless and sated and exhausted, they slowly ease their pace down from frantic rutting to a lazy rocking.

“I’ll have to adjust what I make for the boys so Turing’s stomach won’t revolt against it,” James murmurs after a while. “He’s too little to eat the food they have, it’s too rich for him.”

It occurs to Q that James is still inside him as he as he says this, and the strange observation pulls a lurid heat to his cheeks. Certainly, they have sex as if they were hormone-laden teenagers; certainly, as countless Englishmen have been known to do, they enjoy a raunchy spanking now and again. But James’ concerns are so domestic, so terribly thoughtful, that anything torrid about their afternoon activities softens as much as they themselves.

Q settles his arm beneath James’ neck, fingers bent into his hair. He lays atop Q, inside him still, but with his head against the pillow beside the quartermaster. Q kisses his brow and tries to restrain his grin.

“Too rich, you say,” Q asks. James hums a very serious note indeed. “Has he told you that himself?”

“You’re a right spoiled bastard,” James informs him, squirming just a little to slip free of his husband and stretch long against his side. “I’ll start buying them supermarket cat food, that revolting stuff that sits in murky jelly.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“They have kitten options,” James points out.

“And I’m certain they pale in compare to your creations,” Q praises him, grinning when Bond snorts, dismissive.

“My day just became so much easier,” he answers. “Turing gets jellied meat-scraps. Desmond gets jellied meat-scraps. Peter -”

“Don’t lie.”

“Peter gets the scraps leftover of their scraps.”

“Ghastly,” Q frowns. “You’d not dare.”

“Wouldn’t I? Slinging a few tins into my basket at the shop? Far easier than making it myself, then I can get back to my day.”

“Ah yes,” he agrees. “Which will then become wholly occupied with cleaning up the results of your operation, or - as history has it - leaving your mess for me to tidy in your absence. Do tell me what you’ll do with all that free time, at least, so I might know all our sacrifices to be for the greater good, meaning - of course - your own.”

James hums and adjusts how he lies against Q, draping a heavy arm over his stomach and letting his fingertips caress tickling against his side. With a deep sigh, he considers answering and finds he has nothing to say. He would possibly clean the house up a bit. Read. Watch the cats groom themselves in the light and then drape boneless and soft against whatever piece of furniture - or part of Bond’s body - they happened to be on at the time.

“I would probably lose my mind,” he concludes, having held his breath long enough to tighten his voice a little. “No, I think I’ll stick to creating them elaborate menus of culinary genius.”

"There's a good chap," Q praises him, patting a hand against his husband's chest and kissing the end of his nose. He's kissed in turn, Bond's lips held long against his own, and Q turns toward him. They nuzzle and part, draw breath together and seek the other again. Q's fingers trace tickling soft upwards over James' jaw as it moves, lips sweeping over his own.

That amidst their rutting, their adoration, their furious need to feel the other pressed against them, James still thought of their family touches Q in a way he can't find words to describe. In the afterglow of climax, he worried for the little creature undoubtedly curled safe and warm in the downstairs bathroom. A renowned - no, legendary - secret agent fretted over what food to make a kitten.

Q parts their lips with a sigh, seeking between his eyes. "How on Earth am I so bloody lucky?" He asks, teasing James' bottom lip between his own again. "More to the point, how are they so fortunate, the ungrateful darlings."

“They don’t know how good they have it,” James agrees, lamenting his own imagined terrible life. He smiles when Q touches him again, settles into bed and cards his fingers through his hair. They need a shower. They need to start on something to eat, inevitably let the kitten out early to explore the house under their supervision. “You remember, sometimes, and appreciate me properly.”

“I try my best.”

“You keep up, sometimes,” James agrees, grinning when Q tugs his hair in retaliation. “Lord. Alright. Stay here, darling, I’ll start the shower.”

“And then?”

“And then we can start on something to eat,” James replies, peeling himself from the bed and arching back in a long stretch. “I’m famished.”

“And then?” Q turns to lie on his back, watching his husband as he moves towards the bathroom.

“A drink, perhaps, as we watch our ungrateful fur children get to know each other in the main room.”

“And then?” Q whispers, and James smiles, bending to kiss him softly.

“And then to bed,” he sighs. “Where they will inevitably join us as we read, and where we can rest our eyes and both head into the office the next morning, you to your job, me to mine.”

Q grins, nodding his agreement with the plan, closes his eyes and opens them lazily as James pulls away again and pads towards the bathroom. He knows how lucky he is, only because he spends so often thinking about it. Day in and day out, Q still marvels at the fact that they have this together, a family, a home, time to spend together without threat that once hung over them like clouds. He is very lucky. They both are.

What more could he ask for than that?


End file.
